THE LAST SUMMONS.
ou'll look after her, Mr. Fordyce, promise me that?' said the old man when they had gone over the contents of the will.
'Why, yes, I will, so far as I can,' answered the lawyer, without hesitation. 'She will not lack friends, you may rest assured. This,' he added, tapping the blue paper, 'will ensure her more friends than she may need.'
'Ay, it's from such I want you to guard her. I know how many sharks there are who would regard an unprotected girl like her as their lawful prey. She'll marry some day, I hope, and wisely. But it is in the interval she needs looking after.'
'How old is she?'
'Seventeen and a half, I think.'
'She looks her age—a remarkably calm and self-possessed young lady, I thought her to-day. And she has no idea of this, you say?'
'Positively none,' answered the old man, with something like a chuckle. 'Why, this very morning we spoke of what she would do when I'm away, but it doesn't seem to be worrying her much. I never saw a person, old or young, with greater powers of adapting themselves to any circumstances,—any circumstances, mind you,—so you needn't be exercised about her future deportment. She'll astonish you, I promise you that.'
'You really believe, then, that you won't get better?'
'I know I won't; a man knows these things in spite of himself,' was the calm reply.
The lawyer looked at him keenly, almost wonderingly. He did not know him intimately. Only within recent years had he been engaged to manage his monetary affairs, and only six months before had drawn up the will, which, it may be said, had considerably surprised him. Looking at him just then, he wondered whether there might not be depths undreamed of under the crust of the miser's soul.
'You are behaving very generously to this young-fellow Hepburn,' he said then, leaving his deeper thoughts unspoken. 'He may consider himself very fortunate. Such a windfall comes to few in a position like his.'
'Ay, ay. I daresay it depends on how you look at it,' responded the old man indifferently. 'Well, I'm tired, and there's no more to talk about. Everything is right and tight, is it? No possibility of a muddle at the end?'
'None,' answered Mr. Fordyce promptly, as he rose to his feet.
'Well, good-day to you. I have your promise to see that the girl doesn't fall into the hands of Philistines. I don't offer you any reward. You'll pay yourself for your lawful work, I know; and for the rest, well, I inquired well what I was doing, and though I'm not a Christian myself, I was not above putting myself into the hands of a Christian lawyer.'
A curious dry smile accompanied these words, but they were spoken with the utmost sincerity. They conveyed one of the highest tributes to his worth Tom Fordyce had ever received. He carefully gathered together the loose papers, and for a moment nothing was said. Then he bent his keen and kindly eye full on the old man's wan and withered face.
'Sir,' he said, 'if you are not a Christian, as you say, what is your hope for the next world?'
'I have none,' he answered calmly. 'I am no coward. If it be true, as they say, that a system of award and punishment prevails, then I'm ready to take my deserts.'
The lawyer could not reply to these sad words, because Gladys at the moment entered the kitchen.
'I have come,' she said brightly,'because I fear you are talking too much, uncle. Oh, are you going away, Mr. Fordyce? I am glad the business is all done. See, he is quite exhausted.'
She poured some stimulant into a glass and carried it to him, holding it to his lips with her own hand. The old man looked over her bent head significantly. The lawyer's eyes met his, and he gravely nodded, understanding that that mute sign asked a further promise.
Gladys accompanied him to the door, and the lawyer laid his hand on her shoulder with a fatherly touch.
'My dear, I am very sorry for you.'
'Do you, then, think him so very ill?' she asked breathlessly. 'He says he will die; but I have nursed my own father through much worse attacks.'
'He appears to have given up hope; but while life lasts we need not despair,' he said kindly. 'Good-bye. I shall come back perhaps to-morrow.'
He thought much of her all day, and when he returned to his happy home at night, told the story to his wife, and there is no doubt that the strong sympathy of these two kind hearts supported Gladys through the ordeal of that trying time.
In the evening Walter took himself off to Bridgeton, reluctant to go, yet anxious to hear further particulars regarding the flight of Liz. He arrived at the dreary house, to find his mother engaged with the weekly wash. Now, there was no reason why the washing should be done at night, seeing she had the whole day at her disposal; but it seemed to take these hours to rouse her up to sufficient energy. She was one of those unhappy creatures who have no method, no idea of planning, so that the greatest possible amount of work can be done in the shortest, and at the most fitting time. This habit of choosing unfavourable and unseasonable hours for work, which upsets the whole house, had, no doubt, in the first instance, helped to drive her husband outside for his company. She looked round from the tub, and gave her son a nod by way of greeting, but did not open her mouth. Her little kitchen was full of steam, the floor swimming in soapsuds, the whole appearance of the place suggestive of confusion and discomfort. Walter picked his way across the floor, and sat down on the window-box, his favourite seat.
'Always washing at night yet, mother?' he said discontentedly. 'Have you no time through the day?'
'No; it's meat-makin' frae mornin' till nicht. This is the only time there's a meenit's peace,' she answered stolidly.
'You'll have one less to cook for now, then,' he said gloomily. 'When did Liz go off? and have you any idea where she's gone?'
'I was oot a' Tuesday nicht, an' when I cam' in, on the back o' eleeven, she was aff, bag an' baggage. Mrs. Turnbull says she gaed doon the stair wi' her Sunday claes on, an' carryin' her tin box, a wee efter aicht. "Are ye for jauntin', Liz?" says she; but Liz never gi'ed her an answer, guid or bad, an' that's a' I ken.'
'Did she never give a hint that she was thinking of going?' Walter asked.
'No' her. Liz was aye close, as close as yersel',' said his mother rather sarcastically. 'She's aff, onyhoo.'
'Do you think she has gone away with any one—a man, I mean?' asked Walter then, and his face flushed as he asked the question.
'I couldna say, I'm sure,' answered his mother, with a stolid indifference which astonished even him. 'Ye ken as muckle as me; but as she's made her bed she maun lie on't. I've washed my hands o' her.'
'It's long since you washed your hands of us both, mother, so far as interest or guidance goes,' the lad could not refrain from saying, with bitterness. But the reproach did not strike home.
'If it's news ye want, I'll tell ye where ye'll get it,' she said sourly. 'At Teen's. Eh, she's an ill hizzie. If Liz comes to grief, it's her wyte. I canna bide thon smooth-faced, pookit cat. She'll no' show her face here in a hurry.'
'I've a good mind to look in at Teen's, and ask. Where's the old man to-night?'
'Oh, guid kens whaur he aye is. He's on hauftime the noo, an' never sober. Eh, it's an ill world.'
She drew her hands from the suds, wiped them on her wet apron, and, lifting a pint bottle from the chimneypiece, took a long draught.
'A body needs something to keep them up when they've to wash i' the nicht-time,' was her only apology; but almost immediately she became much more talkative, and began to regale Walter with sundry minute and highly-spiced anecdotes about the neighbours' failings, which altogether wearied and disgusted him.
'I'll away, then, mother, and see if Teen knows anything. Liz will maybe write her.'
'Maybe. She's fit enough,' replied Mrs. Hepburn stolidly; and Walter, more heavy-hearted than ever, bade her good-night and departed. Never had he felt more fearfully alone—alone even in his anxiety for Liz. He had, at least, expected his mother to show some concern, but she did not appear to think it of the slightest consequence. In about ten minutes he was rapping at the door of the attic where his sister's friend Teen supported existence.
'Oh, it's you! Come in,' she said, when she recognised him by holding the candle high above his head, and looking profoundly surprised to see him. 'What is't?'
'I thought you'd know. I came to ask if you could tell me what has become of Liz.'
'Liz!' she repeated so blankly that he immediately perceived she was in complete ignorance of the affair. 'What d'ye mean? Come in.'
Walter stepped across the threshold, and Teen closed the door. The small apartment into which he was ushered was very meagre and bare, but it was clean and tidy, and more comfortable in every way than the one he had just left. A dull fire smouldered at the very bottom of the grate, and the inevitable teapot sat upon the hob. The little seamstress was evidently very busy, piles of her coarse, unlovely work lying on the floor.
'Has onything happened to Liz?' she asked, in open-eyed wonder and interest.
'Yes; I suppose it has. She's run off, bag and baggage, on Tuesday, my mother says, and this is Thursday.'
'Oh my!'
Teen took a large and expressive mouthful of these two monosyllables. Walter looked at her keenly.
'Don't you know where she has gone? Did she tell you anything?'
'No' her. Liz was aye close aboot hersel', but maybe I can guess.'
'Tell me, then. Is anybody with her?'
'She's no' hersel', you bet,' Teen answered shrewdly. 'My, she's ta'en the better o's a'; but maybe I'm wrang. She's been sick o' Brigton for lang and lang, an' whiles she said she wad gang awa' to London an' seek her fortune.'
Walter sprang up, an immense load lifted from his mind. If that were all, he had needlessly tormented himself.
'Did she say that? Then it's all right. Of course that's where she's gone. Don't you think so?'
'Maybe. It's likely; only I think she micht hae telt me. We made up to gang thegither when we had saved the screw. She had a beau, but I raither think it's no' wi' him she's awa'; Liz could watch hersel'. But I'll fin' oot.'
'Did you know him? Who was he?' asked Walter.
'Oh, fine I kent him, but I'm no' at liberty to tell. It wadna dae ony guid till we see, onyhoo.'
'If you find out anything, will you let me know?'
'Yes, I'll dae that. Hoo are ye gettin' on yersel'? An' thon queer deil o' a lassie? I canna mak' onything o' her.'
'I'm getting on fine, thank you,' Walter answered rather shortly. 'Good-night to you, and thank you. Maybe Liz will write to you.'
'Very likely. I'll let ye ken, onyway. If she writes to onybody it'll be to me,' Teen answered, with a kind of quiet pride. 'She telt me a'thing she didna keep to hersel'. But I dinna think mysel' there's a beau in this business. The theatre wad be mair like it; she had aye a desire to be an actress.'
'Indeed!' said Walter, in surprise. He had never before heard such a thing hinted at, but no doubt it was true. He really knew very little about his sister, although they had always been the best of friends.
His heart was not quite so heavy as he retraced his steps to Colquhoun Street. If Liz, tired of the grey monotony and degradation of home, had only gone forth into the world to seek something better for herself, all might yet be well. He took comfort in dwelling upon her strength and decision of character, and came to the conclusion that he had judged her too hastily, and that she was a most unlikely person to throw away her reputation. What an immense relief that thought gave him was known only to himself and God.
Ten was pealing from the city bells when he reached home. When he entered the kitchen, a strange scene met his view. His master was propped up by pillows, and evidently suffering painfully from his breathing, and over his pinched features had crept that grey shadow which even the unpractised eye can discern and comprehend. The young doctor stood sympathetically by, conscious that he had given his last aid and must stand aside. Gladys knelt by the bed with folded hands, her golden head bowed in deep and bitter silence. She saw her last friend drifting towards the mystic sea, and felt as if the blackness of midnight surrounded her.
'Surely, doctor, this is a sudden and awful change?' Walter said to the doctor; but he put up his hand.
'Hush!' he said, pointing to the dying man, who essayed through his struggling breath to speak.
'Pray,' he said at last; and they looked from one to the other dumbly for a moment. Then the girl's sweet voice broke the dreary silence, and she prayed as one who has been long familiar with such words, and who, while praying, believes the answer will be given. The words of that prayer were never forgotten by the two young men who heard them; they seemed to bring heaven very near to that humble spot of earth.
'For Christ's sake.'
Abel Graham repeated these words after her in a painful whisper, and his struggling ceased.
'It is all over,' said the doctor reverently. And it was. Ay, all over, so far as this world was concerned, with Abel Graham.
